


Light the Way Through the Dark

by nottoolateforthegame



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sherlock Has Bad Days Too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 03:26:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16778677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottoolateforthegame/pseuds/nottoolateforthegame
Summary: "It was one of those days. Those days when the world was too bright, too loud, too much. When the words freak sociopath machine wrong-wrong-WRONG! whispered darkly at him from the darkest depths of his mind palace."





	Light the Way Through the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dovahlock221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/gifts).



> For [Dovah!](https://johnlocklover221.tumblr.com/) for Holmestice Winter 2018. You are one of my fandom faves, I hope this fic fills your H/C needs!
> 
> Thank you to [Coat](http://iwantthatbelstaffanditsoccupant.tumblr.com/) for the Beta help!

Sherlock curled up tightly under the covers, eyes squeezed shut, pillow hugged to his chest. The curtains were drawn, the light off. He had showered before climbing into bed, hoping the hot water would wash away the crawling feeling on his skin, the cold aching feeling in his muscles, the overwhelming heaviness in his bones. The shower hadn't helped, any more than tea and toast had done earlier.

It was one of those days. Those days when the world was too bright, too loud, too much. When the words  _ freak sociopath machine wrong-wrong-WRONG!  _ whispered darkly at him from the darkest depths of his mind palace. When the memories of  _ Victor's lip curling in disgust Mycroft's anguished expression when he thought Sherlock was too far gone on the drugs to observe Lestrade's disappointment when he found Sherlock in the doss house after his last relapse John crying out his name brokenly as Sherlock tossed the phone to the side  _ looped through his brain: an unending reel of all the times he had failed, proved he was a freak, a sociopath, unworthy.

Sherlock didn't know how long he lay there, desperate to sleep if only to escape the misery. He knew he'd showered sometime mid-day, as he'd woken up late that morning and tried to ignore the signs at first, tried to push aside the off-kilter feeling he'd started the day with and work on his most recent case. He'd even made a cup of tea and eaten some toast, hoping he was merely suffering from low blood sugar. That was before the shower. After, he hadn't been able to find the energy to do anything more than dry off haphazardly and climb into bed. He didn't know how long ago that was. The best he could deduce was it was currently sometime late in the afternoon, as John hadn't come home from work yet.

* * *

John entered the flat expecting to find Sherlock working on his case-whether hunched over the laptop in his chair or laid flat on the couch with his hands steepled beneath his chin. Either way, he expected to be greeted with a flurry of deductions and explanations, complaints about John leaving for such pedestrian reasons as a paycheck and possibly a demand for tea.

Instead, he found a quiet flat, lights off and air chilled. The stillness of the flat would lead him to believe that Sherlock wasn't home, if it were not for his coat and shoes by the door, where he'd left them the night before.

John paused inside the door, coat half off, head cocked, listening. The silence hung heavily. If Sherlock was about, he wasn't giving away his position. Perhaps he was napping in his room. It was rare, but it happened on occasion. John hung his coat and toed off his shoes, heading to the kitchen.

* * *

Sherlock heard John enter the flat. Heard him pause at the door, then continue on to the kitchen. Listened to him putter about making tea, then tread down the hall quietly. No doubt he meant to peer in on a sleeping Sherlock.

Instead, after a quiet tap, he entered the room and found Sherlock still wrapped around his pillow, a bundle of blankets and damp curly hair, one eye open and watching, unnervingly still.

When John realized Sherlock wasn't sleeping, he stepped into the room, eyes assessing.

“Sherlock?” John's voice was soft, careful.

Sherlock shifted just enough to see John with both eyes. He felt the bed dip as John sat next to him on the mattress, setting the cup of tea he'd been carrying on the side table. Carefully he reached out, carding his hand through Sherlock's hair tenderly before stilling.

“Having a rough day?”

Sherlock's only response was to close his eyes and tilt his head further into John's gentle touch. 

John didn't ask why Sherlock had not called. He didn't tell Sherlock he was being foolish, to get out of bed and get on with it.

“Want to talk about it?” John's voice made no demands, held only concern and caring.

Sherlock shook his head just enough to get his point across and John made a soft sound of acknowledgement.

“How ‘bout a cuddle then?”

Sherlock shifted and raised an arm enough to lift the blankets slightly in invitation.

John stood and tugged off his jumper and jeans before climbing in next to Sherlock. He slid into place, legs twining with Sherlock's, arms wrapping around him snugly, hand gently guiding Sherlock's head down so his face was buried in the crook of John's neck. 

Sherlock felt the warmth of John seeping into his pores. John was here. John was here and he was holding Sherlock so carefully, so safely. John was here and he was everything Sherlock needed at that moment. A lump rose in his throat and tears pricked his eyes, though he didn't know where they came from.

His fingers grasped John's soft vest so tightly he worried John might complain and make him let go. But John just began rubbing circles into his back, murmuring softly. After several deep inhales, drawing in the  _ warm safe home  _ scent of John, Sherlock felt his body relaxing and was able to make out what John was saying.

“...so sorry I wasn't here for you. It's going to be alright, sweetheart. I've got you now…” John continued to reassure him and Sherlock relaxed even more.

John's hands were warming him up, driving away the creeping, aching chill. His words were driving out the awful censure that had been plaguing Sherlock all day, clearing the darkness out of the halls of his mind palace. His very presence made Sherlock breathe easier, feel lighter.

He rubbed his nose against the underside of John's chin, a soft, contented hum escaping him.

“Feeling better?”

“Hmm…”

“Wanna talk about it?”

Silence for several minutes while John began combing through Sherlock's hair with his fingers, stopping to rub at the base of his skull or behind his ears. 

“It was just-” Sherlock started, then stopped with a sigh.

John pressed a kiss to his temple, feather light, and gave him a gentle squeeze with his arms.

“‘S alright, Love.” Another gentle kiss. “How 'bout a nap? After, maybe we can take a walk, go get chips from that place?”

Sherlock settled against John. A nap sounded nice, actually. He rested his head against John's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. 

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

“I love you.”

He heard John swallow, felt his deep inhale.

“I love you, too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock let himself drift. John was here. His warmth and light would continue to push the darkness back. And even if it didn't, even if Sherlock became mired in the darkness, John would stay by his side, would love him however he was. Slowly, Sherlock was learning to do the same.


End file.
